Dulce Et Decorum Est
by thejokirliveson
Summary: England muses on war, oneshot. Yaoi - USUK. Please, please review. For me?


My friend, you would not tell with such high zest, to children ardent for some desperate glory, the old Lie: _Dulce et decorum est, pro patria mori…  
_-Wilfred Owen

Dulce Et Decorum Est

War. The word flitted through his head. War. War. His mind conjured up images of bloody swords and bloody battlefields; of gun muzzles and spinning bullets; of white rooms and white bandages. _It's a lie… it's a lie…_ his mind whispered._ Don't believe it… don't believe it… _He choked down the bitter tea, too weary to reach for the sugar, too tired to find the milk. His mind was as weary as his body, endlessly circling in a terrible loop, unable to remove itself. He vainly tried to change his course of mind by wondering exactly what had brought this on, but his mind circled back to the endless loop of thoughts and memories. His blonde hair shaded his eyes and hid his thick, furrowed eyebrows from view. His forehead was sweaty and his eyelids half-covered tired emerald eyes. Suddenly the hand supporting his chin slipped, letting his chin smack into the hardwood desk in his study. His eyebrows scrunched briefly in pain but he made no move to rise. Instead he tilted his head to the side and took in the stacks of paper work. He remembered when every second one had been a war document… or in the extremely tough times, when they had all been war documents. The World Wars had been an extremely tough time, especially after the Blitz… Arthur, personification of England and representative of the United Kingdom, coughed and rubbed his nose. He thought he felt a cold coming on. Then again, it could all be in his head. Arthur was surprised he wasn't a bloody hypochondriac after all the years he had been living. But then again, none of the other nations would blink twice at it, if it ever happened, Arthur being seen as slightly insane already. Talking to mid-air; really! Just because they couldn't see his magical friends didn't mean he was crazy! Arthur sat up and stalked to the side table to get the teapot. He poured another cup, added the milk and sugar, and then stared into the tea. The milky-watery substance still swirled lightly from being stirred. And it pulled his mind back to the war raging in his head. His emerald eyes settled on a pile of history books on the side table and vaguely realised that the history books were probably the reason for the downward spiral he was on. Or maybe it was the fact he couldn't hear his hamburger idiot thumping around the large and eerily quiet mansion. Arthur had only figured out how lonely his life had been before after Alfred, America, had left to help the fight going on overseas. Arthur wondered if going to America would help, but his paperwork tied him to England for just a little longer. Besides… America wasn't America without… well, America. Or rather, America's personification. Arthur curled back up in his armchair/desk chair and sipped at the tea, held shakily between unsteady hands. England sat there for a while, feeling cold but too tired to move.  
"Oh Artie," he heard whispered in a warm voice and strong arms wrapped around him. He dropped the teacup as he was lifted against a muscled chest. Pale fingers wrapped themselves in a familiar leather jacket.  
"Alfred," he replied.  
"You're too light… you've been eating, right?" Alfred asked softly.  
"Yes, like I promised. I'm just so tired," Arthur answered, just as softly. Alfred chuckled.  
"That I understand. C'mon, I'll light a fire in the fireplace and we can talk." Alfred gently placed Arthur on the couch and the older man childishly groped around the furniture for his embroidered blanket. Alfred laid it over him before lighting the fire.  
"I hate war," Arthur said thickly.  
"Arthur…"  
"I know; I used to start so many of them. I'd ally with someone as long as I could kick France's arse. I made an Empire out of a large piece of the world… but I was young and stupid…"  
"Arthur…" Alfred tried again. This time Arthur didn't interrupt. "That's not what I was thinking…"  
"I know, just mulling…" Arthur smiled weakly. "Just thinking of the stupid things people do in their youths. Especially mine… I was always a stubborn child who'd pick a fight to show I could survive. I supposed a rough childhood can do that to someone…"  
"Some humans who go through that become serial killers," America said, not thinking. England winced and looked at Alfred.  
"Sorry, choice of words…" Alfred said, regret filling his voice to the brim.  
"Wrong thing to say entirely…" Arthur said with a weak smile.  
"Right, sorry…" Alfred sighed, rubbing his face. Arthur just shook his head and leant against Alfred. He was beginning to fall asleep, looking more comfortable and at ease than he had in the past month.  
"When I was younger, I always felt bad for killing the animals so that I could live… and the guilt grew… but only Arthur Kirkland's guilt. As England I was blameless… as Arthur Kirkland, the soldier… the human… I felt so guilty… I felt tarnished…" The room was silent except the fire crackling away and the slight rustle of material as the boys moved. Alfred pressed his lips to the top of England's head, then to his forehead, then his cheek, then finally his lips. Each kiss was brief and England felt everything that America wanted him to know.  
"I love you too," England whispered as they pulled apart. There was another short, sweet kiss and then they just looked into each other's eyes.  
"_Dulce et decorum est, pro patria mori_…" England whispered. "It is sweet and fitting to die for one' country… but it never is…" The room became silent once more, tears glistening in Arthur's emerald eyes. It was enough to bring Alfred to teary eyes too. A tear fell down England's porcelain face but neither made a move to wipe it away. Instead they clung onto each other, under England's special blanket.  
"But somebody has to be the hero," Alfred said seriously after a while.  
"That's why I still believe the Old Lie…"

The next morning, Arthur said nothing as he walked into the kitchen, blanket wrapped around his shoulders, but, "_Ego sum laetus vos es domus_." Alfred couldn't remember much Latin, but he could make out what England was saying.  
"I am glad you are home." The personification of America smiled at England.  
"Skip the Latin?"  
"Sorry, old habit," Arthur smiled weakly. "But it's true."  
"I love you," Alfred grinned as he ruffled Arthur's hair and set to making breakfast.  
"_Ego diligo vos_…. I love you too."


End file.
